The Escape of John Watson
by x-Lazart-x
Summary: After the fall, John tries to get on with his life and escape Sherlock's memory. Next time he sees Sherlock is when he thinks he's dying, believing his best friend is there to help him with this next great adventure. pre- Johnlock


In retrospect it was something incredibly stupid that set the while thing off. Sherlock had been dead for two months now, two long months that had dragged by in a haze. John was still in Baker Street, he couldn't bare to leave, yet he was loathe to move anything or clean up. The only change he made was to throw out some experiments because they'd started to smell or grow mould.

For the most part he avoided everyone, even Mrs. Hudson which was quite a feat. The week of the funeral had been full of sympathetic phone calls from people he'd never met but who knew exactly what he was going through. They read his blog or Sherlock had helped them out once and they were so sorry, the completely understood. Only they didn't. None of them had ever known Sherlock, not the way he did. Had. Worse still was everyone asking how he was coping, was he holding up alright? Did it look like he was doing okay?

He'd watched his best friend, the most important person in his life, plummet to his death, after lying to him. Why had he lied… Still Harry, Mrs. Hudson, hell even Lestrade and the Yard had insisted on asking that pointless question. Donovan had tried to approach him, right after the accident, insincere condolences already on her lips. Something in his face must have stopped her, maybe she saw the pure rage and contempt that he didn't try to hide, either way she just turned and walked off. The best man he knew was dead because of Moriarty and that spiteful bitch…

Regardless after that first week it had been too much. All the questions, the speculation, the nightmares where he just wasn't fast enough to catch Sherlock, to save him. The day before the funeral he caught sight of Sherlock's violin and completely broke down. For hours he sobbed, gasping for breath around the tears and tight throat. Dimly he realised that it was lucky Mrs. Hudson was out, he wouldn't want her seeing him like this, he didn't want anyone to see him like that.

Falling into an exhausted sleep, he's woken up to the numb feeling. Pushing down all his grief, all his turmoil, he locked it away, he wasn't going to break down again, not even to cry at the funeral. Going to work, doing the shopping, his life went on but what he was doing could hardly be called living. If anyone asked how he was doing he insisted he was fine, eventually they stopped asking.

Anyway back to that day. A medical conference was going on in town and the practice always liked to send someone to attend a few lectures, not just to stay afloat on what was new but also because it made the practice look good. For some reason it had been decided to send John this year, probably just to get him out for a little while.

Sitting in the last lecture of the day it was a faint surprise that the lecturer actually had both his attention and his interest. It'd been so long since anything had interested him, since he'd felt anything besides this hollow, numbing ache. Yet he did, as crazy as it seemed.

The door at the back of the hall banged shut and John felt a brief spike of irritation, was it really so hard to try and be on time? The chair behind him screeched slightly as the late comer sat down. Counting to ten, John forced himself to calm down. There was no point being worked up over something so stupid. For a short second he'd felt something besides the ache and now his emotions were trying to spill out everywhere. Stubbornly the doctor pushed them down, intent on once again ignoring them. He probably would have succeeded, if not for the dick behind him.

Rustling of a poke distracted John, followed closely by the sound of loud, obnoxious crunching. The tight hold on his temper frayed as he took deep, calming breathes. There was nothing to get worked up over, someone was being inconsiderate, it happened all day every day. The git then took a long, loud slurp from whatever drink he'd brought with him. Blood boiling, any control John had had over himself snapped.

All he ever did was be considerate of others. Constantly putting people's needs before his own. These past two months all he'd needed was to be alone but instead he went about his life so nobody would worry, he smiled and acted as if everything was okay to appease those around him. Well to hell with it. All he wanted was to listen to the god damn lecture that he was enjoying and the wanker behind him couldn't even let him have that. Another loud crunch, sounding as if it was right at John's ear.

Before he was even aware of doing it he had flung back his chair, rounding on the startled young man behind him, who had froze with one crisp lifted half way to his mouth, which now hung open in a comical manner. At least it would have been comical if John wasn't so furious.

"Will you shut the hell up?!" he demanded, glaring at the increasingly nervous doctor, who was looking around for support that he wasn't going to get. "Some of us are actually trying to listen you rude little fuck-" John visibly forced himself to calm down. The speaker just kept on talking as if he hadn't just shouted and interrupted. It wasn't even worth it. Suddenly weary he slouched out the door, indecisive over whether to head home or not. What was the point? In all of this? London just seemed bleak and empty without Sherlock, was it even worth it? The only thing that had been holding him back had been other people but now… well maybe it was time that John Watson did something for himself.

* * *

As he slowly made his way home, John's mind was racing with the possibilities of what he was going to do now. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to get out of London, as soon as possible, preferably without everyone knowing and asking a million questions about how he was holding up. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

First off he called Sarah, apologizing and saying that he needed the week off. She didn't seem overly surprised, they'd been treating him with kiddie gloves the past few weeks, obviously expecting something like this. Either way that was one person down, now the bigger problem of Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. To be perfectly honest John wasn't even sure if he was still being watched, now that Sherlock was gone. But sometimes he would catch a glimpse out the corner of his eye, or he would just get a gut feeling about some new neighbour that had moved in. Either way he'd had quite enough of being under a microscope.

Stopping off at the store, he bought a weeks worth of shopping, which seemed like such a waste so he tried to buy all canned and frozen goods, that way nearly everything would keep till he got back. Or either that Mrs. Hudson could take them. The landlady actually turned out to be really easy. John did feel a smidgeon of guilt for lying to her but justified his actions as necessary. Besides he'd leave a note and some rent money, telling himself he'd give her a call now and again to let her know how he was. His story was that he planned to finally go through Sherlock's possessions and if she could please just give him a week to himself to sort everything out. She'd been understanding, promising to give him the space to do what was needed.

Shoving all his shopping away, he went upstairs and started to pack. There wasn't much that he possessed that he wanted to take, just enough clothing as his duffle could carry, which turned out to be almost everything in his wardrobe. His laptop was shoved down on top of those, followed by a few newspaper clippings he'd kept about cases. A whole half hour had passed and he was almost ready to go.

Now he just needed money. Of course he would have his card with him if he absolutely needed it but he wanted to stay as off the radar as possible, so he'd be paying with cash for as long as he could manage. Luckily there was more than enough money hidden around the flat. It was money that Mycroft had given them for cases, or on Sherlock's birthday, all of which Sherlock was convinced was Mycroft trying to control them. After giving the money back hadn't worked, Sherlock had sulkily suggested they just throw it away. Here John had put his foot down, insisting they at least plant it incase of emergencies. His flat mate was dead and John was trying to hide from Mycroft, if that wasn't an emergency then he didn't know what was. Besides Sherlock would have gotten a kick out of the situation, as it were.

He hid the money amongst his clothes, at the last second remembering to pack some extra bullets, for in the unlikely even that he used his whole clip that was currently in his browning. Then John sat and waited, nothing left to do till night fell.

* * *

Ten o'clock and he decided it was time to make a move. Dark enough to slip out but still early enough that there would be plenty of people about. Taking the roof exit, he paused just to double check with himself that everything was covered. Money, check. Timers on the lights had been set, check. Food all put away, check. Everyone who would expect to see him had been fed a story, check. Everything seemed good to go.

Taking as many back ways as possible, he avoided the CCTV cameras as well as Sherlock had shown him how to all those months ago. Who knew he'd need it to avoid his brother? Then again that's who Sherlock was usually trying to avoid, even if it was just to rile his brother up.

Getting to the bus station wasn't a problem. Without caring where he was going, he bought a ticket for the first outbound bus, using the extra fifteen minutes to buy some sweets and juice for the ride.

Seated on the bus, John watched London flash by one last time, who knew the next time he'd be back? He had a feeling it would be quite awhile but this was exactly what he needed. Time away from _his _memory, _his _city. Turning away and closing his eyes, John tried to let the tension melt away.

* * *

When John thought he'd be away from London awhile, he was right. Two years had passed since he left and to be completely straight up he hadn't looked back. Every other week he called Mrs. Hudson, who told him how much he was missed and when would he be coming back? At that point he always changed the subject but he knew that Mycroft had been paying the rent so Mrs. Hudson hadn't rented the place out and wasn't hard up for money.

Mycroft who had been trying to track down John. A small part of him was sure that Mycroft knew his location and was just humouring him but another, larger part really thought he was successfully staying off the grid. He always used pay phones or cheap disposable mobiles to call Mrs. Hudson, that were off when not being used. In the past two years his card had only been used a handful of times, immediately leaving for a new town after doing so.

The cheap hotels and hostels were ideal, John slept there and nothing more. Suring the days he'd pick up odd jobs, volunteer or occasionally he's get some supplies together and go round the homeless hangouts, offering some free services. Granted most of them wouldn't give him the time of day but the really seriously sick would sometimes suffer his help. If Sherlock had taught him anything it was how indispensable the homeless network truly was, even in the small towns that he stopped off in.

After two years on his own he was mostly content, some days he could even claim to be happy. The melancholy days were few and far between. This trip had to have been one of the best idea he's ever had. If he happened to be plagued with loneliness quite often… well that was to be expected really. Being a little lonely was slightly better than the ache that returning to London would bring.

Besides he wasn't completely alone any more, not since six months ago. Minding his own business, he'd been wandering down by the park of the new town, having just arrived. He hadn't even found a hotel yet, after the bus ride the need to stretch his legs was so tempting he'd just taken off. Picking a direction and following it had led him to this park, with some rusty play equipment off to the left and a small duck pond that he almost overlooked.

In fact he probably would not have even noticed it if it wasn't for the strangled yelp that caught his attention. Recognizing a sound of distress when he heard one, instinct alone had him dropping his bag and running for the water.

The sight that met him wasn't what he expected. In the middle of the pond a bulldog pup that couldn't have been more than six months, was being pulled repeatedly below the surface of the water. Kicking off his shoes John waded right in, talking to the dog in a low soothing tone, hoping to avoid being bit.

Grabbing him around the middle, he was met by resistance. Reaching into the murky water he groped around till his hand met a leg wrapped up in algae and weeds. Untangling him, he dropped the dog off at the edge of the water, watching as the puppy took off running, pausing every few steps to roll around in the grass like a loon.

Soaked from the thighs down, John quickly picked up his belongings. A glance about showed a few kids scattered around playing so he couldn't just get changed there really quick. Chill starting to set in, he set off at a brisk pace in the general direction where the centre of town should be.

Pausing to pull on his shoes, it was at that moment that he noticed the dog was following a few paces behind him. After unsuccessfully trying to shoo it away, he eventually started walking again, figuring it would lose interest soon enough.

Ten minutes later he was outside a small inn and the puppy was still by his side. John had always had a weakness for dogs.. As a kid he'd begged for one every year at Christmas but his father hated them. After moving out school had kept him too busy to have the time for a dog, then he was in the military followed by Sherlock. Now he wasn't exactly in any position to look after a puppy. Yet when those pathetic eyes were turned on him his heart melted.

"Alright, you can stay but just for tonight. Tomorrow we're going looking for your owners," John warned, going in and paying for a room. The receptionist offered to have something made and sent up, an offer that John gratefully accepted. One good thing to be said for these small places in the country, was not only were they glad for paying customers but they usually had no problems with animals being in the rooms. Before heading to his room he asked if anyone recognized the dog who had followed him. Nobody did, so he gave up, going to his room for a hot shower before his food was sent up.

* * *

He stayed in that particular town for two weeks. Despite the fact that he asked around daily no one had seen the dog before. After a week he caved and started calling him Gladstone, a few days later he bought a collar and leash. On the fortnight mark, standing at the train station he had Gladstone with him. Sneaking him onto the train and under a table was surprisingly easy, considering it wasn't even that busy. The few people already on the train didn't even take any notice.

Having a dog made things slightly more problematic, though that wasn't really the word. For one not everywhere was dog friendly, so often times he had to ask around a bit finding somewhere to stay. That didn't really bother him though. But when he was traveling he didn't like to keep at it for too long with the dog stuck under the table. Now he had to remember to occasionally take him to the vets, just to get him checked out. It was very tempting to have Gladstone chipped but that would make it easy to be tracked so he settled for putting his name and Mrs. Hudson's number on the dog tag. At least that way they should always be able to reach someone. None of that really mattered to John, Gladstone was a smart dog and he kept away most of the loneliness.

* * *

John had just arrived in Liverpool, deciding that a few days in the city might be a nice change from the country. As soon as he arrived he called Mrs. Hudson just to check in and had been surprised when she said that Mycroft had called her. It all sounded urgent enough that he told her the payphone number, saying he'd wait half an hour for Mycroft to call.

Not even five minutes later it was ringing and he was talking to Mycroft. John was surprised by how weary the man sounded, had he always been like that?

"John it is imperative that you come back to London immediately," no 'hello' or 'how have you been'. How very like a Holmes, he thought with a small huff of exasperations.

"Oh of course let me just go jump on the train," he replied sarcastically. At least Mycroft always picked up upon the sarcasm.

"I'm not playing games Doctor Watson," the chill in his voice would have cowed most people but it wasn't going to work on John.

"And I'm not some lackey to be ordered around. What's going on Mycroft?" he said it as plainly as possible, knowing the mans penchant for talking in riddles.

"You don't have the clearance to know that."

"I hate being kept in the dark. If you don't tell me why I need to, I'm not coming back to London." The silence stretched on for a minute or two before Mycroft finally answered, voice tight.

"We have reason to believe that you are in danger. One of Moriarty's men may be after you." Now that certainly got his attention.

"Moriarty? Why would his men be after me? Why now? He's been dead for over two years," John spluttered out in confusion. After Sherlock had taken his fall, Jim's body had been found on the roof, it hadn't taken much after that to unravel all of his lies.

"I can't tell you that John," Mycroft said softly. "I'll send my people to come get you-"

"Don't bother," John cut in angry and frustrated. "I can take care of my self and if you have trouble tracking me down, I very much doubt they'll be able to." Having said his part he slammed down the phone. Picking up his bag he was tempted to leave immediately but he was hungry and tired. He'd stay the one night and then leave first thing, back to the country. Gladstone, sensing his distress, pushed himself closer and whined, pulling a reluctant smile from John. "Don't worry buddy, we'll be fine."

* * *

Turns out Mycroft hadn't been paranoid, if anything he'd understated the danger. The next day on the way to the bus stop, all John felt was a faint sense of foreboding before the tranquilizer dart hit him in the arm. Dizziness struck and he sank to the ground, managing with a great struggle , to let Gladstone off his leash and to push him away. At least Gladstone would be okay, was his last thought before he fell into unconsciousness.

He came to strapped into a chair with his hands behind his back. They were in what appeared to be an abandoned factory. Nobody was around and he set about taking in as much information as he could.

His head felt as if it was full of cotton balls, his mouth was dry and his shoulder ached. Obviously his captor hadn't been very gentle in handling him. His hands were tied with some thick ropes that John immediately started working on.

Why was he taken alive? Its not as if he had any information that would be useful to anyone. Which didn't exactly leave a lot of other options. Most likely scenario was that this was a revenge thing, but why wait so long? To catch him off guard? Make him think he was safe? That part of their plan had obviously worked, even with the warning he's received from Mycroft.

John wasn't sure how long he waited but his wrists were rubbed raw, when his captor finally made an appearance. Looking at him, something was niggling at John, insisting he was familiar. As soon as he started talking he managed to place him. This was the guy who had acted as Moriarty's lawyer. He didn't introduce himself, didn't say anything except to ask where Sherlock was and how he'd done it. That had been so unexpected a startled laugh had escaped him, before he denied it all, telling him that Sherlock was dead. Then the torture had started.

* * *

Despite the fact he couldn't have been there for more than a day, going by the weak light coming in through the windows, John hurt all over and felt exhausted. Physically and mentally. He'd passed out briefly, when he woke up his captor, who during the beatings had claimed to be someone called Moran, was gone.

His whole face felt swollen and he could barely move his jaw, making John think it was broken or fractured. At least three ribs were cracked and two of them broken, he couldn't move at all without getting hit with shooting pains. Yet he knew if he was going to get free now was his best chance. Tugging to his bound wrists, that were now covered in blood, he felt the ropes give an inch and he managed to slip his hands out.

Pausing for a few seconds, John forced himself up and towards the door that was just opposite him. Leaning against the wall he had to pause to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his gun just lying on a table. Was this some kind of trick? A joke? Even if it was he still had to try for it.

It took longer than he'd care to admit to reach it but when he did and picked it up he could instantly tell that the bullets were still in the clip. He almost laughed in disbelief. Being underestimated was something he was used to but this was just ridiculous, incredibly insulting. Did no one ever remember that he was in the army? That he'd killed people? Never the less he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

This just added to the belief that his captor was insane. Between leaving a weapon close at hand, the belief that Sherlock was still alive and well he just had a crazy glint in his eyes. Obviously the years without his boss hadn't been kind to him. Given his vehemence for revenge, John suspected that there was more than a professional relationship going on.

The sound of footsteps brought him back out of his thoughts and he cursed himself for being distracted in the first place. With great effort he slid down the wall till he was crouched down, partially hidden by the table. As soon as the door was flung open John fired. One between the eyes and two in the chest.

It almost seemed too easy, not that he was complaining of course, just that Mycroft had made the man seem more dangerous. Then again he had managed to get the jump on John. Really it was a fluke that Moran had underestimated him as much as he had. If that hadn't happened he would more than likely be dead, or would have been in the next few hours.

Now that he was down again John was dismayed to find that he couldn't get back up. Blearily he hoped that Gladstone was alright and that Mrs. Hudson would take him in. At least he wasn't really leaving anyone behind, besides Mrs. Hudson of course. The only family he had was Harry and they weren't exactly close. Sure she would mourn but she'd be alright. Sherlock was the only other person that came to mind and he was already gone.

So it was thinking of his grand adventures with Sherlock, sporting a slight smile on his face that John started to slip into unconsciousness, just as the doors were thrown open and people flooded the room. And if John happened to recognise the tall, curly haired man with impeccable taste in coats… well he just thought Sherlock was there to help him along with this next adventure.

* * *

An annoying steady beep greeted John when he came back to himself. Between that and the smell that assaulted him, he easily identified his location as the hospital. Before doing anything else he tried to remember what had happened. He remembered being shot, Moran, then what he could only guess was Mycroft's men, Sherlock…

A hand wrapped around his, forcing John to open his eyes, squinting at how bright the room was, to see who was sitting beside him. He wasn't sure who he expected, maybe Harry but instead Sherlock was perched in the chair next to his bed.

"I'm still hallucinating," John croaked out before he could even think about it. Sherlock drew back and a second later a cup and straw were being held in front of his face. Thankful John took a few sips, his throat feeling better almost immediately. But this couldn't be right, hallucinations couldn't pick things up, they couldn't-

His heart monitor had sped up at an alarming rate and nurses came rushing in as John tried to force himself to calm down.

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave Mr. Holmes," he heard it as if from underwater as the nurse gave him something and all he could think was that she saw him too.

* * *

The next time John woke up he felt calmer and more like himself, plus he'd stopped hallucinating. He pushed the button to get a nurse in, instead ten minutes later Mycroft came walking through the door. How he'd gotten here so quickly John would never know.

"Dr. Watson, nice to see you awake at last."

"How long have I been in here?" John asked.

"Two weeks. Broken and cracked ribs. Your jaw was merely bruised, they've been feeding you through a tube. Both wrists were badly damaged, you've to take it easy for the next two weeks or so the doctors informed me."

"Right well…"

"Mrs. Hudson has already prepared your room at Baker Street, due to the fact that you can't be left alone."

"Does she have Gladstone?" John had to know that he wasn't out wandering the streets by himself.

"Gladstone? Ah yes the dog, she currently has him in her care."

"Moran, will anyone else come after me for him?" he asked after taking a moment to think about the whole situation. He was getting too old to be fighting assassins, or that's how he felt at that moment with taped ribs and his whole body feeling bruised.

"No, the last of Moriarty's people are being brought in at this moment. Moran was the last major player that needed to be brought down but he was proving elusive…"

"How did you find me?" And why did it take so long?

"We followed you using the cameras and then had to figure out which warehouse he had you in. By the time a team was organized and it was deemed possible to send them in you had already taken care of Moran." That was probably as close to a 'sorry you were tortured before we could save you' as he was ever going to get.

"Suppose it's a good thing you got there when you did," John smiled slightly. Sure them getting there sooner would have been nice but at least he was alive and he could count his blessings. A lull fell over them and finally Mycroft gave him one last nod before heading for the door.

"I saw Sherlock, he was here," John blurted out just before he could reach the door. He just had to tell someone and who better than Sherlock's brother? Granted he might think John had gone crazy but the nurse had seen him too, he was almost sure of it.

"Ah so he came and explained the situation already," Mycroft turned around, frowning slightly. "I had advised he wait till you were at least back at Baker Street before telling you about the plan."

"The plan? So he is… alive?" Mycroft sighed in exasperation as John felt a pounding headache coming on. None of this made sense. Sherlock was dead. DEAD. He saw him fall, he checked his pulse…

"I see once again my brother has failed at what he set out to do. He should be the one to explain. But know this, he is very much alive. Much like Ms. Adler was the first time." That done he turned and actually left this time, giving John time to freak out by himself. Sherlock was his best friend, how could he do that to him? How could he…? Did he just not trust him?

Now wasn't the time to deal with this. The added stress wouldn't be any good right now, best to just try and not think of it for now. He'd wait for Sherlock, save his freak out so he'd have to deal with it, the absolute bastard, letting him mourn for the last two years, letting him leave London because it reminded him too much of him. Fuck trying to stay calm, he was going to call Mycroft and demand Sherlock be dragged to the hospital if necessary. He could bloody well explain himself. Perhaps it was fortunate that the nurse chose that moment to come in and give him something to put him back to sleep.

* * *

They let him out of the hospital four days later and Mycroft sent a car to take him back to Mrs. Hudson's. Sherlock hadn't came by in the hospital again, leaving John to fume by himself. Mrs. Hudson had warned him in advance that Sherlock had moved back into 221B. For a split second he contemplated calling Harry, surely she'd put him from going through with it. Why should he be the one hiding away?

Mrs. Hudson met him at the front door and helped him get up the stairs, despite his protests of being more than capable to handle it. As soon as he entered the flat he noticed Sherlock sitting in his usual chair. The need to pull him into a hug or scream at him was overwhelming but the sound of feet distracted him long enough to see Gladstone come flying towards him barking happily.

Crouching down he petted his dog, letting himself be sniffed all over and having his face covered in wet kisses. Gladstone growling alerted John to the fact that Sherlock was now standing behind him. It had to be him because Mrs. Hudson had just went back downstairs.

Standing, Sherlock was just two paces away. He wanted to touch him just to make sure he was actually there, make sure he was alive, he barely restrained himself.

"John-" That was all he got out before John closed the gap between them and punched him in the face. So much for restraint. Sherlock looked so shocked that he couldn't prevent a chuckle from escaping.

So Sherlock had faked his death and John was so pissed about it and imagined he would be for quite some time. Life wouldn't just return back to normal, it could take months before John could forgive him properly. None the less he knew he would eventually forgive him. It would be hard and god damn you better believe he'd make Sherlock work for it but if anyone was worth it, it was Sherlock.

They'd be fine, they'd work through this together.


End file.
